


Lashing Out

by Athina_Blaine



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Miscommunication, They/Them Pronouns for Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, based on lylahammar's comic of the same name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:46:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28302543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Athina_Blaine/pseuds/Athina_Blaine
Summary: Grabbing their mug, Jon stood from the desk, wincing at the crack of their joints, and made their way to the kitchen. But then they hesitated. The splash of running water, a sponge over silverware, was drifting out from the kitchen.They really weren't up for more of Martin's hovering, not right now. Theyneededthat coffee, though. They’d just have to bear whatever concern Martin would toss their way.The pot stood on its hotplate, still warm from when Jon had brewed it this morning. They picked up the kettle with a click, and like clockwork, Martin glanced over from the dish he was scrubbing.“Oh, hey,” he said, bright, and Jon’s chest wound up tighter. “How’s work going?”
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 12
Kudos: 205





	Lashing Out

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by [theshoutingslytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theshoutingslytherin/pseuds/theshoutingslytherin) (tumblr [@here!](https://definitelynotshouting.tumblr.com/)).
> 
> Based on [@lylahammar's](https://lylahammar.com/) comic [here!](https://lylahammar.tumblr.com/post/634427247074426880/lashing-out-i-was-asked-to-put-them-all-together)
> 
> Context: This AU is post-apocalypse, and Jon has found a writing career concerning their experiences with the fear entities.

Jon slumped over their desk, rubbing the heels of their palms into their eyes.

Why was this going so _poorly?_ Two hours and 257 words to show for it. They should’ve been at _5000_ by now; two chapters, including footnotes and revisions, all due by the end of next week. They’d _barely_ passed the opening paragraph.

The publishing house was going to be furious _._

If only they hadn’t let Martin talk them into that movie last night. But Martin had insisted, said Jon should give themself a _break_. Jon should have known better, though– it was just distraction after distraction. If it wasn’t a movie, it was a walk. If it wasn’t a walk, it was dinner out. At least when Jon had been an avatar they hadn’t had to worry about eating three bloody square meals a day. 

This draft was supposed to be the _easy_ one. They’d picked the Dark for that entire reason– they’d never had an encounter with Maxwell Rayner before, the Dark had never hunted them or manipulated them as a pawn. The Dark Star had been _beautiful,_ in its own way, like staring into a horrific Aurora Borealis. And yet, last night, after penning their notes, they’d had such terrible nightmares. Trapped in a black void, scrounging for a source of light. _Anything_. They’d dreamt of young Callum. Of being lost.

Martin had asked that morning if they were okay. _Didn’t sleep well,_ Jon had replied, and hadn’t elaborated.

Because if Jon couldn’t get _this_ draft out, what were they going to do when the time came for the _Eye?_ The Web, the _Lonely?_

They squeezed their hands hard enough that their nails cut into their palm. They were _never_ going to catch up at this rate.

Coffee. They just needed some coffee, a little energy. Then _maybe_ they could salvage this.

Grabbing their mug, Jon stood from the desk, wincing at the crack of their joints, and made their way to the kitchen. But then they hesitated. The splash of running water, a sponge over silverware, was drifting out from the kitchen.

They really weren't up for more of Martin's hovering, not right now. They _needed_ that coffee, though. They’d just have to bear whatever concern Martin would toss their way.

The pot stood on its hotplate, still warm from when Jon had brewed it this morning. They picked up the kettle with a click, and like clockwork, Martin glanced over from the dish he was scrubbing.

“Oh, hey,” he said, bright, and Jon’s chest wound up tighter. “How’s work going?”

 _Terrible. Awful. It’s failure after failure and I don’t know what to do._ But that was hardly a productive response.

“I’ve been wondering if you wanted to do something tomorrow,” Martin continued, turning back to his dishes. “You’ve been working so hard on that draft, I think it might do you some good. You know, get some fresh air. There’s this new bakery that– ”

“Martin, I already _told_ you that I have to work this weekend.” The tightness coiled under Jon’s sternum ignited. A _bakery?_ Was he _serious?_ “I wish that you would actually _listen_ to me instead of just ignoring all the parts that are inconvenient to you. It’s _infuriating_.”

There was a pause. 

“Oh.”

Jon didn't turn around. They stared into their mug, trying to imagine the face Martin was making. A bit wide-eyed. Lips parted in shock. _Good_ , Jon thought savagely. Then maybe Martin would understand that Jon’s work was _important_. It wasn’t something they could just pick up and drop again on a whim. A _bakery_ , for God’s sake.

The water started running again.

“You know,” Martin’s voice was tight, “you can be really cruel when you’re stressed. You should try to be aware of that.”

Was this supposed to be _Jon’s_ fault, then? If Martin hadn’t kept distracting them in the first place, they wouldn’t _be_ in this situation. “I wouldn’t have to be so blunt if you’d actually _improve_ ,” they snapped, “but it’s almost like you’re deliberately choosing to remain incompetent.”

"Now that's uncalled for," Martin said, heated. "I'm not your assistant anymore, so I'd appreciate it if you stopped acting like you're my boss."

“You’re right. You’re _not_ my assistant. Good thing, too.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“It means that I’m _glad_ I’m not your boss anymore,” Jon snarled. “You were a _lousy_ employee.”

Silence. Jon braced themself against the counter, readying for a retort, for Martin to get angry, properly _angry_. Good. Jon could take it, if it got him to _see–_

“… Fine.”

Jon whirled around, but Martin wasn’t standing at the sink anymore.

He was … walking away.

Jon’s heart sank. _Too far–_

“I’m leaving.” Grabbing his jacket, Martin reached for the door handle. “I think we could both use the time to cool down.”

The gnarled, twisted anger flared back to life. Of course. Of _course._ “Fine! Go on, then, run away from your problems like always.” The words came out strangled; they swallowed, eyes burning. “Just shut me out, like you always– ”

The door slammed shut, cutting Jon off, and they reeled back. Martin didn’t _slam_ things. He handled them with gentle reverence, whatever it was– a chipped mug, a book, Jon's hand. They were all treated with equal delicacy. He didn’t … he didn't …

He was gone. Jon had chased him off.

Jon's chest stuttered with a haggard breath. They dragged a hand across their face. Reached for their coffee.

“I…” _– too far, you went too far–_ “I should get back to work.”

Jon sat back at their desk. The cursor blinked at them, screaming like always. And now they had that conversation ringing in their ears, joining the song.

How could Martin just _storm off_ like that? It was … _childish_. Jon was frustrated and tired and felt like a failure, why couldn’t Martin just _understand that–_

_But you didn’t tell him that, did you?_

They buried their face in their hands, their breathing only growing sharper.

_He’s gone. Are you happy? Can you focus now?_

_He’s not_ gone _, he’s just–_

Jon stared into the endless white void of their computer screen.

_He’s …_

Jon lurched to their feet, sprinting toward the door and swearing viciously under their breath.

They threw it open. _“Martin!_ ”

A few startled pedestrians looked up, but Martin wasn’t there, because of _course_ he wasn’t, he was probably _long_ gone by now– 

They reached for their phone– _have to apologise–_ dialed Martin’s number– _calm down calm down calm down–_ but as the call connected, the faint ringing of Martin’s phone echoed behind them. They turned.

There, on the kitchen counter. Martin hadn’t taken his phone. Jon had no way of reaching him.

Numbness crept through Jon’s fingers.

What had they done?

_–still a monster–_

Jon stumbled back into the flat, the room tilting to one side– _it’s better that he left, better that I’m alone–_ their legs trembling as they reached for the wall– _what if he went back to the Lonely? Don’t be_ stupid, _he wouldn’t do that–_

They slid to the ground, clutching their throat, gasping for breath.

 _He wanted to stay there. I_ forced _him to leave._

 _He went back to the Lonely and it’s_ **_my fault._ **

****

Martin loved the nearby park; it was a big reason why Martin had wanted their flat in the first place. It had a nice little walking path with plenty of greenery, just enough to get that nature fix, and a pond with plenty of ducks. It was a great place for Martin to clear his mind.

Astounding, then, as Martin walked down his and Jon's favourite path, that he didn't feel much better. Not without Jon's hand in his, their voice in his ear as they talked about their day. 

_Go on, shut me out, just like you always–_

Martin cringed away from the memory. Jon’s voice had broken. And Martin had shut the door right in their face.

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Dammit. What was he _doing?_ Jon shouldn’t have snapped at him, but they were right; the two of them were never going to get better at this if Martin kept running off.

He took another moment to collect himself. Wouldn't do either of them good if he came back with his heart still racing, desperate to hurt something. With a deep breath, he turned around.

The door was unlocked when he returned to the flat. “I’m back,” he called, hanging his coat on the rack. “Jon? Can we …?”

Martin pulled up short. Jon, crumpled on the kitchen floor, snapped their head up, eyes wide and wet. 

“Oh, Jon …”

“ _Martin_.” Jon scrambled to their feet, reaching out a scarred hand only to pull it back at the last second. Hesitant. As if they weren’t sure it was allowed. “Y-you came back. I … I thought you …”

“I just went for a walk, darling,” said Martin, taking Jon’s hand. It shook in his grip. “Come on, let me get you some water.”

“Please don’t go.” Jon pressed their face into Martin’s shoulder, fingers tangling in his jumper. _“Please.”_

“Easy, easy.” Martin wrapped his arms around Jon’s trembling shoulders, squeezing as tightly as he knew Jon would want. When Jon’s legs buckled, Martin guided them down until they were both sitting on the floor, sprawled and tangled. “Easy, dear, I’m not going anywhere. Come on, breathe with me, okay?”

Jon nodded, sucking in harsh, gasping breaths. Martin breathed in, chest rising slowly, before letting out one long exhale, waiting for Jon to do the same. They both stayed like that, breathing in the slow rhythm that Martin had set.

At last, Jon’s shivers started to ease.

“I didn’t mean it,” they whispered into his chest. “Any of it. I promise you were a good assistant.”

“I know, love.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so, _so_ sorry, I was _completely_ out of line– ”

“Jon …”

“And the thing about you running away, too, I don’t– I didn’t– ”

Martin shushed them gently, running his hand up and down Jon’s back. “I know, Jon, I know. Just breathe for me.”

Jon hiccuped, scrubbing the tears from their face. “Thank you for coming back.”

“I’ll always come back, Jon.”

Jon’s lips twisted, and Martin knew he hadn’t been believed. Jon trusted Martin with their life, with their heart, and yet, Martin wondered if they would ever entirely trust him to _stay_.

“I love you.” He kissed their temple. “With all of me.”

Jon curled up as tightly as they could into Martin’s chest. “I love you too,” they said, so soft Martin could barely hear, “with much, much more than I could ever hope to be.”

 _You’re enough_ , Martin wanted to say. _You’ve always been enough_. But he just tightened his arms, pressing his lips into Jon’s soft hair, and hoped they understood. 

Another time. They’d have a proper talk about all this; about boundaries and what they needed from each other when it all became too much, as it inevitably would. For now, though, Martin let himself hold Jon, breathe for them, love them.

They both lay there, in their little bundle on the floor, and just breathed.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on tumblr [@athina-blaine](https://athina-blaine.tumblr.com/).


End file.
